Lives of Poets
What makes me wonder
Is not why writers and poets
So young and old
Succumb to emptiness.
It is the lives they had lived
Under the bright sky.
Things they must have seen
To mold those words of bitterness.
From Homer’s Olympus heights
To Byron’s mountain of light.
From the banks of a gushing Nile
to the flows of Mega’s Mississippi might.
Mountains, rivers, hills, and streams
Have molded words and wondrous dreams.
Dripping blood mixed with ink
Together they form a hidden link.
Don’t let your bullets fly
Nor blades invade your vital stream,
Until all rivers have run dry
And the Sun has set its final beam.